Secret Agent Seduction (10 page)

Not that finding Mr. Right would be on her radar anytime soon, she reminded herself.

Watching as Magliore took a sip of his wine, she shook her head ruefully. “I guess I should have warned you that, in addition to being a supercompetitive fisherman, I hate losing arguments,” she joked, trying to inject some levity into the conversation.

The remark wrung a grim laugh from Magliore. “I would've never guessed.”

Her lips twisted into a wry, self-deprecating smile. “One of the things you learn as a Secret Service agent is how to be diplomatic when diplomacy is called for, and how to be a good negotiator when diplomacy doesn't work. That said, there are certain issues I feel very strongly about, and in the process of defending my position, I've been known to come across as a bit, ah, combative.”

Magliore's mouth curved in a lazy smile. “Never apologize for being passionate about your beliefs, Miss Charles. God knows I never have.” He raised his glass to her in a toast. “Truce?”

Lia grinned. “Truce.” They clinked glasses lightly.

Gazing across the table at him, she admired the smooth perfection of his mahogany skin in the soft candlelight, watched as the flickering flames danced across the hard angles and planes of his face. Her eyes traced the line of his thick, black brows and lingered on the sensual contours of his lips. As desire stirred within her, she looked away, her gaze settling on his strong hands clasped lightly on the table. She remembered their calloused warmth against her skin, leading her from the cabin in Muwaiti, passing her a cold bottle of beer on the boat, giving her a high-five when she caught the eight-pound trout.

She'd thoroughly enjoyed his company that afternoon, arguments or not. A part of her didn't want the day to end.

A very big part of her.

It was now dusk, the sky muted and purplish against the darkening landscape of trees. A pair of citronella torch lamps, along with the candle, cast a warm, inviting glow over the table and kept the mosquitoes at bay while fireflies flickered on and off around them. Lia felt the tranquility and beauty of her surroundings seep into her, lulling her into a state of relaxed contentment.

As she and Magliore finished their meals, they laughed and talked, picking up where they'd left off earlier at the lake. Lia listened in rapt fascination as he regaled her with stories about growing up in Muwaiti, tales that included spontaneous forays to sugarcane fields, exploring caves and chasing iguanas with his twin siblings, and going hunting and fishing with his father. Although Lia knew from his dossier that Jacques Magliore had been killed when his oldest son was only fourteen, Magliore chose not to mention this, dwelling instead on happier childhood memories. He reminisced about lying on the floor of his fourth-grade classroom and reading from his favorite book while he listened to the ocean waves crash against the rocks outside the window. That was his reward for completing his assignment early, along with the sweet treats his teacher used to sneak to him. Lia's mouth watered when he talked about how he and his friends would lie in the sun after hours of swimming and gorge themselves on luscious mangos, guavas, pineapples, pomegranates and carambolas.

She was so enthralled by the colorful sights and sounds he was describing that she didn't think to protest when he suddenly rounded the table, took her hand and pulled her gently out of her chair.

“Dance with me,” he said as a reggae song with an upbeat tempo began playing on the stereo.

Lia's response was part laugh, part groan. “Do I really have—”

“Just one dance.” Magliore smiled as he led her out to the middle of the deck, the calloused warmth of his big hand sending shivers up and down her spine. “Ahh, this is one of my favorite songs,” he said as he began swaying his hips to the music.

When Lia stood still before him, he chuckled and reached for her, pulling her lightly into his arms. She resisted, her body stiffening beneath his hands on her waist.

“Relax,” Magliore murmured, subtly guiding her movements. “I won't bite, I promise.”

“It's not that.” Although it should have been. “It's just that…I'm afraid I'm not much of a dancer. I missed most of the high-school parties and dances, including my prom, which, as you probably know, is the single most important social event in any American teenager's—”

“Wait.” Amber eyes searched her face. “You missed your high-school prom?”

Lia nodded ruefully. “My father was rushed to the hospital an hour before I was supposed to leave. He was having severe chest pains. We thought he was having a heart attack. Thankfully it turned out to be nothing more serious than angina—scary, but treatable.”

Magliore shook his head at her. “So you spent your prom night in a hospital emergency room?”

The compassion in his deep voice nearly brought tears to Lia's eyes. Which made her feel like a complete fool. “I didn't tell you that to make you feel sorry for me,” she said almost defensively. “I just wanted you to understand why your dance partner may have two left feet.”

“You're doing just fine to me.”

“I—” With a start, Lia realized that they had been swaying rhythmically to the music the entire time they were talking. The moment she became cognizant of it, she stumbled.

“It's okay,” Magliore said softly. “Just relax and absorb the music. Your body will do the rest.”

He was right. Before long Lia felt her limbs loosening as she emptied her mind of everything but this moment. As one song segued into another, she felt herself surrendering to the music, keeping her upper body relaxed and steady while her hips undulated to the edgy, pulsing rhythms. Magliore held her gaze as they danced, and there was something so powerfully intimate about the connection between them that Lia felt naked, her soul stripped bare before him. It was like nothing she'd ever experienced in her life.

Watching her through heavy-lidded eyes, Magliore said huskily, “I knew you had it in you,
chère.
I knew the moment we met, when we crossed swords at the cabin back home, that you had this fire in you.”

Lia felt herself flush, immeasurably pleased by his words. She smiled demurely at him. “You're not too bad yourself, Mr. Magliore.”

Which was an understatement. Lia had watched enough movies and music videos to know that Caribbean men, generally speaking, were supposed to be amazing dancers. Armand Magliore was no exception. The languid sensuality of his movements hypnotized her. Just the way he danced left no doubt in her mind that he would be a superb lover—intensely passionate, skilled, unselfish.

Imaginative.

When her body grew hot and flushed, she knew it had nothing to do with her exertions on the dance floor.

Just then the uptempo reggae music faded into a slow love song. As Magliore drew her into his arms, bringing her flush against his body, her pulse hammered and her blood heated.

“It's getting late,” she whispered shakily. “We should probably clean up and—”

“Shh. Just close your eyes and dance,” he murmured, the velvety timbre of his deep voice caressing her senses, seducing her.

Although she knew she shouldn't, Lia did as he told her, curving her arms around his neck and resting her head on his shoulder. She could feel his heartbeat, strong and steady. She was breathtakingly aware of every inch of his body against hers: the strength of his arms around her, the hardness of his chest and abdomen rubbing her tingling breasts, the firm, muscular glide of his thighs against hers as they swayed to the slow, sensuous music. His heat penetrated her flesh, scorching her nerve endings. He smelled like smoke and fire from the grill, but beneath that was his own clean, uniquely male scent. Suddenly she wanted to press herself more fully against him, crawl inside his skin, touch everything, taste everything.

As if sensing a shift in her, Magliore drew back his head and looked down at her.

Their gazes locked, and for one intense moment the world swirled around them in a rush of smoky sound and dancing shadow. The smoldering heat in his eyes made her breath lodge sharply in her throat. In that instant Lia knew he was going to kiss her.

And she wasn't going to stop him.

In the far recesses of her mind, an alarm sounded, but her body was beyond heeding the warning.

As his dark head slanted over hers, her pulse quickened with anticipation. The first touch of their mouths was like an explosion in her brain, in her body. All her senses roared to life. Her breasts throbbed, heat pooled between her legs, her thighs trembled.

His soft, warm lips moved slowly and sensually over hers, drawing a helpless moan of pleasure from her. Dizzy with need, she ran her hands along his muscled upper arms, then over his broad shoulders to pull him even closer. With a low, husky groan of approval, he deepened the kiss, parting her lips so that the tips of their tongues met, making her shiver.

His tongue slid inside, exploring her mouth in silky, tantalizing strokes that sent currents of sensation whipping through her. He ate at her mouth, tasted and licked inside her as if she were made of his favorite confection and he couldn't get enough. She fell headlong into his fierce, marauding kiss, intoxicated by the taste and feel of him. The experience of him holding her, crushing her against the solid warmth of his chest, was unbearably arousing. A liquid warmth coiled inside her, drawing tighter and tighter until she thought she'd come apart in his arms. She wanted him with a desperation that terrified her—or would have, if she'd been thinking at all clearly.

But Magliore made her forget everything in those forbidden moments—she lost awareness of time, of where they were and even who she was. All she knew was that she needed him closer, deeper, tighter…his touch, his taste, his mouth devouring hers.

She nibbled and suckled his lush bottom lip, and he made a harsh sound deep in his throat, his arms tightening around her with steely strength. She trembled as his lips moved against the corner of her mouth, jaw and chin before sliding along the arch of her throat, trailing a fiery pathway of nerves.

His hands slid to her bottom, kneading her, grinding her into his pelvis so she could feel the thick, rigid length of his erection.

That was when Lia realized she'd let things go too far.

As if she'd been doused with a bucket of cold water, her body stiffened with shock. Her eyes flew open.

Magliore groaned, tightening his hold on her as she tried to pull away. “Don't go,” he entreated her raggedly, his lips rasping against her throat. “Please don't go.”

Lia shivered in response even as she forced herself to step out of his arms. “No,” she whispered breathlessly, shaking her head. “I-I'm sorry. This is wrong. We shouldn't have done that.”

Magliore was breathing as hard as she was, his chest rising and falling rapidly. He reached for her, his eyes glittering with need and frustration. “No one has to know.”

“It doesn't matter,” Lia said, struggling against the pleasure of his touch. “
I
know. And that's more than enough for me.”

“Damn it, Lia—”

She held up a hand, cutting off the rest of his argument. She was so shaken by the explosive kiss they'd just shared that she didn't bother correcting his use of her first name. What would be the point? After what had just transpired between them, they could never return to any semblance of formality, anyway.

“Maybe you should go inside,” she said, marveling at her ability to keep her voice steady when her legs were quivering uncontrollably. “I can stay out here and clean up.”

A muscle worked in Magliore's jaw. He held her gaze for a long, charged moment, then abruptly turned away. “No. You go inside. I'll clean up.”

“We can both—”

“You don't want to be anywhere near me right now,” he said, low and dangerously controlled. “Take my word for it.”

Lia swallowed, her heart thundering. Not trusting her voice, she turned without another word and beat a hasty retreat, wishing she could run all the way back to Washington, D.C., and as far away as possible from Armand Magliore.

A
fter Lia disappeared inside the cabin, Armand unleashed the brunt of his anger and frustration upon the grill. He cleaned and scrubbed the damn thing until it gleamed like new, fighting to control his raging libido as he worked.

He had kissed Lia.

After eight long, torturous years of dreaming about her and waking up in a cold sweat only to realize he might never see her again, he'd finally gotten his wish. He'd held her in his arms and he'd kissed her.

And she'd run from him, denying both of them what could have been the most spectacular night of their lives.

With a savage curse, Armand next attacked the dishes on the table. He'd been obsessed with Lia for so long, he'd almost convinced himself that the reality of holding and kissing her could never compare to his fantasies.

He couldn't have been more wrong.

Remembering how it had felt to kiss her, to taste her lush, sweet lips and caress her warm, silky skin, Armand felt desire threatening to boil up inside him once again.

Although he'd spent the past year living in celibacy, Armand was no monk. He'd enjoyed his fair share of island beauties—women who were as appealing and diverse as the many different shades of his people.

Once upon a time, he'd even given serious thought to marrying the daughter of former president Francois Seligny. Nathalie was strong, beautiful and compassionate, and she'd loved Armand wholeheartedly. But as much as he cared for her and admired her father, Armand knew he could never belong to her as long as his dreams were haunted by visions of a beautiful young American with Gypsy eyes and a bewitching smile. Nathalie had known, too. Although he'd never told her or anyone else about Lia, Nathalie had sensed his unavailability. She'd often accused him of saving his heart for another woman, a creature of such mythic proportions mere mortals could never measure up to her, she'd said laughingly. But beneath her teasing remarks, Armand had always sensed her pain and disappointment, which made him feel guilty. He'd wanted to fall in love with her, wanted to forget his secret dreams about a woman he never expected to see again. But he couldn't. When Nathalie and her family had left Muwaiti after burying President Seligny, Armand had known it was for the best. He'd hoped, in time, that Nathalie would find someone to spend the rest of her life with, someone who would love and cherish her the way she deserved.

As for him, he'd all but resigned himself to a future of obsessing over a beautiful mystery woman he could never hope to have.

And then one day, against all odds, she had come back into his life.

The more time Armand spent with Lia, the more convinced he became that she held the key to his destiny. And now that he'd finally had a taste of her, he had to have more.

When he'd finished clearing the dishes and straightening the deck, he went to take a shower—a freezing one—to cool the fire still raging in his blood. He wanted Lia so badly he ached, wanted her more than anything he'd wanted in years.

But as he stood beneath the cold spray of water, he began to realize that all was not lost. The passion he'd experienced that night with Lia had not been one-sided. Far from it. She'd responded to his kiss with an explosive hunger that rocked him back on his heels and took his breath away. No matter what she said or did from this point on, she could no longer pretend to be immune to him. He'd tasted her need, seen the passion in her eyes, felt her surrender in his arms.

He now knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that she wanted him as much as he wanted her.

Which meant there was hope.

One way or another, Armand was going to have her.

How could she have been so stupid?

Several hours later as she lay in bed, Lia was still berating herself for succumbing to temptation and kissing Magliore. She couldn't believe she'd been so irresponsible, so downright reckless. Armand Magliore was her protectee, the man whose life had been entrusted to her. Locking lips with him did
not
fall under her scope of duties.

Cursing viciously under her breath, Lia punched her pillow in frustration and flipped over, onto her back. Clasping her hands behind her head, she glared up at the darkened ceiling in angry disgust.

She had always prided herself on being a consummate professional. But there was nothing remotely professional about the way she'd behaved that evening. As if dancing with Magliore hadn't been inappropriate enough, she'd had to go and kiss him!

What the hell had she been thinking?

That's easy,
her conscience mocked bitterly.
You were thinking about his soulful bedroom eyes, his sexy mouth, his deep, mesmerizing voice. You were thinking about the way his big, powerful hands would feel caressing your body, and the way his soft, sensuous lips would feel against yours. You were thinking about everything but doing your damn job.

Lia groaned as a fresh wave of shame engulfed her.

For all her lecturing and pontificating about the importance of maintaining boundaries, she'd gone and done something crazy like this. Cosgrove and the other agents hadn't even been gone an entire day. The moment she and Magliore were completely alone, her resolve to keep him at arm's length had flown right out the window, along with her common sense.

Lia wished she could blame her lack of self-control on too much alcohol, but she knew better. She'd only had half a bottle of beer and one glass of wine, hardly enough to impair her judgment. When all was said and done, she had no one but herself to blame for what had happened that evening. Magliore hadn't forced himself upon her. She could have refused to dance with him, and she definitely could have stopped him from kissing her. But she hadn't. She'd allowed him to kiss her because she was incredibly attracted to him, and had been from the moment they'd met. If she was completely honest with herself, she would admit that she'd wanted this, wanted
him,
ever since she had pulled off his mask back at the cabin in Muwaiti. One look at his mouth and she'd known that kissing him would be an unforgettable experience.

At the memory of his hot, plundering kiss, a wanton pleasure settled between Lia's thighs and brought another low groan to her lips. She squeezed her eyes shut tightly in a desperate attempt to block out the forbidden images, but it was no use. She couldn't get that mind-blowing kiss out of her mind. She'd never experienced anything like it before, although, admittedly, her experience with men was woefully limited.

Her ability to read minds had always made the dating scene something of a challenge—even more so than for other women. What could be worse, Lia had often thought, than knowing the guy she was kissing was either thinking about the basketball game he was missing, or calculating how quickly he could get her clothes off?

Lia had often been so turned off by her dates' thoughts that they hadn't progressed beyond kissing. And
no
man had ever come close to making her feel the way Armand Magliore did.

She snatched her pillow off the bed and buried her face in it to muffle the loud, agonized groan that erupted from her mouth.

For the first time in her career—hell, in her life—Lia considered the possibility that she was in over her head. With ruthless mercenaries on the prowl, she couldn't afford the distraction of becoming romantically involved with Magliore. She needed her wits about her, needed to be alert and ready to respond to any threat. But how was she supposed to put aside her powerful attraction to Magliore and carry out her responsibilities when she couldn't stop aching for his touch, his next kiss?

She thought about calling Janikowski and asking to be reassigned. But what would Lia tell her? That the man she'd been assigned to protect was too damn sexy for his own good? For
her
own good? That Magliore wasn't the one who needed protection—
she
was?

Lia could only imagine how her supervisor would respond to such an explanation, and it wouldn't be good. Even if Janikowski granted her request to be reassigned—which was highly unlikely at this critical juncture—the damage to Lia's reputation and career would be devastating. She'd be permanently branded as the agent who had allowed her raging hormones to interfere with her ability to do her job. Everything she'd ever worked for and fought to establish for herself would be tarnished. And those who believed that women had no business working as agents in the Secret Service would feel vindicated.

And if, God forbid, something were to happen to Magliore because Lia failed to protect him, she would never forgive herself. Ever.

No, she told herself resolutely. She could not let that happen. She wouldn't abandon her post. She had to see this through. Too much was at stake. Not only her career, but a man's life—and the future of an entire country. If she continually reminded herself of just how much was riding on her shoulders, surely that would give her the strength to withstand any temptation that came her way.

Because when it came to resisting Armand Magliore and the seductive power he had over her, Lia knew she would need all the strength she could get.

Monday, September 8, 2008
0700 hours
Thurmont, Maryland
Day 4

“Rough night?” Armand murmured the next morning as he and Lia sat across the table from each other in the main lodge, where breakfast was being served. Although it was barely seven o'clock, nearly every table in the large dining room was occupied. The air hummed with clinking glasses and silverware and the low murmur of conversations.

Lia glanced up from her plate to meet his speculative gaze. “Not at all,” she said quickly—too quickly. “You?”

Armand gave her a slow, lazy grin. “I slept like a baby.”

“That's good.” Her eyes dropped with a sweep of her long, black lashes. “I'm glad to hear it. I slept well, too.”

Liar,
Armand thought, his grin deepening. Even if Lia hadn't been sporting small bags under her eyes, he knew for a fact that she was lying through her pretty teeth about getting a good night's rest. He'd heard her through the wall that connected their rooms, tossing and turning restlessly in bed before getting up to work out with her free weights. Sometime in the middle of the night, he'd been awakened by the sound of her prowling around the cabin, presumably under the guise of checking locks on the doors and windows. He'd drifted back to sleep with a satisfied smile on his face, basking in the knowledge that she was as rattled by the kiss they'd shared as he was.

Reaching for his cup of coffee, Armand continued conversationally, “It's hard
not
to sleep like a baby at this place. All this clean mountain air, the peaceful sounds of nature. And those beds are amazing. Of course,” he added wryly, “
anything
beats sleeping on a cold, hard floor with nineteen other men—at least half of whom snored like pigs.”

“Mmm, hmm,” Lia murmured noncommittally, not glancing up from her plate. It was obvious she hadn't heard a word he'd said.

Deciding to have a little fun with her, Armand said huskily, “The only thing that would make the nights more perfect is having a soft, warm body to cuddle up with. Don't you agree?”

“Definitely.”

Armand waited a beat, watching as comprehension belatedly dawned on her face, causing a deep flush to crawl across her cheeks.

Mortified, her eyes flew to his face. Seeing his mischievous grin, she scowled. “Very funny.”

Armand chuckled. “I thought so. You've been silent and brooding all morning. I thought you could use a laugh.”

Frowning, she stirred cream and sugar into her previously untouched coffee. “I
haven't
been brooding,” she grumbled.

“No? What do you call it then?”

She said nothing, carefully setting aside her spoon before lifting the cup of coffee to her mouth. She drank slowly, staring over his shoulder as she monitored traffic at the entrance to the dining room.

When they'd arrived for breakfast half an hour ago, she'd walked straight to a table in the rear corner and slid into the chair with its back to the wall, giving her a view of the whole room, just as she'd done yesterday morning.
Force of habit,
she'd admitted when Armand had commented on it. As a man who'd spent the last four years of his life looking over his shoulder for enemies, Armand had cultivated the same habit, the same need to keep a close eye on everything in his environment. But rather than claiming the chair beside Lia—which he hadn't thought she would appreciate—he'd sat down across the table from her. Which meant he had nothing to stare at but the wall—and her.

Not that he was complaining.

Finishing his breakfast, Armand leaned back in his chair, stretched out one leg and contented himself with imagining Lia in something other than the blue-and-white pinstripe blouse and pleated gray slacks she wore. Something light and gauzy, he mused. Or tight and clingy, like those snug-fitting jeans she'd changed into yesterday when they went fishing. He imagined her hair loose and tousled, as if she had just risen from bed—his bed. He imagined her lips soft and wet from his kisses, her eyes half-closed and smoky with desire.